Page 130 of Hell to Pay
I have no idea how long it was before he had me sitting at the little table and was plugging in the electric fire and making me a cup of tea. I’d done my best to wash up but knew I still looked dreadful, and I couldn’t care. I said, “What— how— What’s wrong with him?” The first words I’d managed.
“Heart,” Joe said, putting the cup before me and sitting down. .
“Oh, no,” I said. “He had a cough, but he said it was just a cold. I wanted him to let me get a doctor, but he said?—”
Joe had my hand now. “He was already too sick, Marguerite.” His voice was gentle. “His heart probably hasn’t pumped as well as it should for years, and now, the fluid has built up in his lungs. They can give him some medications if he recovers and make him more comfortable, but they can’t fix the problem.”
I can’t describe the devastation of my own heart. I couldn’t even think of anything to say. The tears were welling again, and Joe said, “He’s seventy-two years old, and I’m guessing he hasn’t had enough to eat for a long time.”
“It’s the war,” I said. “Stupid Hitler and this stupid war.” I was beating my thigh with the heel of my hand now, unable to control myself. “Why does everybody and everything good have to die?Why?It’s too unfair. It’s too?—”
Joe had his arms around me again. “I know,” he said above my head. “I know. But his wife is gone, you know. He lost his work, the country he loved became unrecognizable, and he’s alone. I think all of that broke his heart.”
How had I had so many tears, when I’d thought I had none? I was clutching my handkerchief, trying to get the words out. “I know it’s—it’s selfish, but I— I— He hadme,though. He had me. I didn’t tell him I loved him. I didn’t?—”
“Oh, Marguerite,” Joe said helplessly. “He knows that. He loves you, too, I’m sure. Do you think everything gets said? Aren’t there things you just know?”
I nodded against him. It was all I could do. He said, “Have you had anything to eat?”
“N-no. I c-couldn’t. I wanted to ride over there, when you didn’t come. I wanted to?—”
“But you didn’t,” Joe said. “I’m awfully glad I put that in the note.”
His voice was a little amused now, and I found I could sit back, sniff, and say, “I only obeyed because I knew you were right.”
“Well, I’ll take that,” he said. “What were you going to eat?”
I nodded at the tiny draining board. “Potatoes mashed with cabbage. And herring. Shouldn’t we go over there, though, and be with him?”
“Visiting hours are only three times a week,” Joe said. “I can take you the day after tomorrow.”
“He won’t have his books, though.”
“He’s really very ill,” Joe said.
“But he needs his books. He needs to know they’re there.”
He raised his hands, then dropped them. “OK. I’ll drive you over there tomorrow evening, once I’m done with work, and we’ll drop off a few books for him. Does that work?”
“Yes,” I said, wiping my eyes yet again. “And I’m working,too. So you know. At the bakery. I’m not—not helpless, like you thought. I’m not?—”
Joe smiled. How dear was his smile to me! “I’ve never thought you were helpless. Not possible. You may be the least helpless person I’ve ever known.”
“But I cried,” I said, wiping my nose this time. Oh, I was a vision of loveliness.
“I cried, too,” Joe said. “When I left that day.”
He had his rucksack in his lap and was pulling things out of it. Cheese, canned ham and oranges, and a banana. I hadn’t seen a banana in years. It distracted me, and it took me a few seconds to say, “You mean when—when we broke up? That’s what it’s called, right? Breaking up? You did? The way I did just now? Where could you possibly have done that?”
He laughed out loud. “You’re right. No sobbing in the barracks. I had some tears in the Jeep, though. I didn’t sob, no, but my heart ached like crazy. Is that enough for you?”
“Oh.” He’d found a plate and was putting ham and cheese and pickle on it, cutting into the rye loaf I’d brought from the bakery, peeling an orange and separating it into sections, and I was salivating like one of my father’s hunting dogs. I was still so sad, but I was somehow beginning to feel a glow of happiness, too. How could both things be true at once? “May I eat half of the banana?”
“You,” Joe said, putting the plate in front of me, “may eat thewholebanana. Where’s your good bread, though? The potato kind?”
I couldn’t figure out how to get the stem of the banana off. He had to do it for me. “It’s not being made anymore,” I said.
“Why not, if you’re working at the bakery again? And how didthathappen?”
